


Hand Print

by wordscarvedbywolves



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Between Episodes, Fluff, Gen, Shaving, The Mandalorian (TV) Season 2 Spoilers, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29719590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordscarvedbywolves/pseuds/wordscarvedbywolves
Summary: He hasn’t shaved in a while, never getting the chance the last time they were here, and he was due. He pulled off the helmet and placed it to the side.One glove off and then the other.He took the rag and the blade out, placing them to the side. Then twisted open the tin.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda
Comments: 16
Kudos: 61





	Hand Print

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YourBones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourBones/gifts).



> Another piece inspired by the ideas bounced between myself and the lovely YourBones! Because Din having a mustache just for himself is the best thing ever and I decided to write a fluffy fic about him shaving. Then it got sad all on it’s own. Love it when that happens. Enjoy!

Din slipped carefully out of the bunk, ducking beneath Grogu’s hammock with practiced ease. He glanced back at the sleeping form of the children and closed the door to the bunk again to give Grogu some more time.

He went about his waking routine before leaning on the wall of the bunk by the vac-tube. Across from him, at eye level, was a pathetic mirror and tucked just below that was a small box. After checking around the corner to see that the bunk door was still sealed shut, he took off his helmet, resting it on a storage bin within reach. 

One glove came off, then the other. 

He splashed his face with some water from his canteen, running his fingers over the stubble cropping up along his jawline and chin.

He pulled out the small box and clicked it open, taking out the thin switchblade and round tin, leaving the rag inside. Cap off the tin with a flick of his wrist and he scooped some cream onto two fingers, lathering it up against his own cheeks. 

Once his face was covered, he wiped his fingers and grabbed the blade. Too flimsy to be a proper weapon, it was sharp enough to do its job here. He tilted his chin up, gazing through the discoloration of the mirror, and guided the blade flat against his skin. 

Over the dull scratch of the shave, he listened for any signs of the bunk door. The cream fell away as he went and he cleaned the blade methodically every few swipes with a brush of a rag.

Above his lip, he left the mustache, neatening up the edges of the facial hair and then pausing. 

It’s been years since he could recall his parents’ faces with clarity - with certainty. He vaguely remembered that as a child, he was told he was the spitting image of his father. He didn’t know if he grew up to the man’s likeness, or if his features resembled his mother over time. 

He would never know.

Turning away from the grimy reflection of the mirror, he wiped his face with the rag just in time to hear the bunk door open with a quiet whoosh. 

Helmet back on, he glanced to his left. No movement, but a tiny thump as Grogu lowered himself - apparently without a care for being gentle - to the floor. Din sighed and waited just a brief second before Grogu peeked around the corner and cooed. 

“Sleep well, kid?” Din asked, tugging on his gloves before he reached down to lift the child. Once Grogu was safely in the crook of his arm, he tossed the switchblade and rag back into the box. He passed the tin base from his free hand to his occupied one, careful of not jostling Grogu too much, and reached for the cover.

Grogu cooed and pressed a curious finger into the cream. Din stopped and watched him pat a gob between his tiny claws, lighting up when it smooshed between his fingers. 

Din snorted, watching with amusement through the thin vision of his helmet. He considered his options: put the tin away, feed Grogu before he got any ideas about the cream, and get focused on their travels or… or he could make the child smile again. Give him a chance to be a kid, even just for a moment. 

With his index finger, he took a dollop of cream and booped him on the nose. The resulting crossed eyes and giggle was absolutely worth the break in Din’s composure to snort out his own laugh. Grogu gazed up at him with pure delight and pressed his whole hand deep into the cream, wiggling excitedly in Din’s hold.

“Okay, okay. That’s enough. That stuff isn’t the cheapest thing in the galaxy,” Din said, gently lifting his palm out. It left an imprint and Grogu blabbed at the near perfect form of his own hand until Din recapped the tin. He retrieved the rag and snatched Grogu’s hand before he could pop it in his mouth. He wiped it and then, using one of the cleaner corners, swiped Grogu’s nose clear as well. 

Box back underneath the mirror, he resolved to feed the kid as soon as possible.

***

Nevarro hadn’t seemed so overwhelming the last time that Din was here. Then again, the last time Din was here, he hadn’t been so overwhelmed. 

The last time Din was here, it was just ship repairs on the way to Corvus. The last time, it was just blowing up an imperial base that was doing sickening experiments. The last time, Din had a mission to complete.

Had a purpose.

Had Grogu.

And like last time, Greef invited him to stay with him so Din knew where the guest room was, heading to it in a daze. He fiddled with the ball tucked into a side pouch, distinctly feeling like he was missing a limb. At the door, he stopped and hovered in the hallway, letting his brain catalog that he did in fact have all his physical limbs and the panic rising to his throat was purely emotional. 

And unnecessary. 

He completed his objective. His mission. He got Grogu to his kind. To a Jedi willing and able to train him. A Jedi obviously capable of protecting him.

Better than Din ever could protect him.

He took a deep breath, shaky through the helmet he no longer felt comfortable wearing, but couldn’t bear to let go. A helmet that now felt like a falsehood. He raised a trembling hand to open the door, desperate to get inside and process why the helmet suddenly felt suffocating.

“Mando?”

He forced himself to still and turned fully to Greef at the end of the hallway. He didn’t offer a response, wary of how his own voice would betray him.

“Are you-” Greef started, then seemed to think better of it. “Let me know if you need anything,” he decided on, turning to go back downstairs then stopped. “I almost forgot. You had left a small bag here the last time you stayed. It’s still in there.”

Din nodded just enough to make it visible to Greef and finally stepped into the room. He was alone, in more ways that he ever cared to admit, and caught sight of his bag wedged between the cot and a side table. He grabbed it and dumped the contents, saved from the destruction of the crest by Din’s moment of absent-mindedness. 

Inside was a canteen Din thought he misplaced while out in the desert, two spare smoke bombs, and a box. He clicked open the box and sighed, taking it into the private bathroom.

He hasn’t shaved in a while, never getting the chance the last time they were here, and he was due. He pulled off the helmet and placed it to the side. 

One glove off and then the other. 

He took the rag and the blade out, placing them to the side. Then twisted open the tin.

The image of a small hand lay embedded in the cream. He stumbled back a step or two, until his back hit the wall and he slid down to the floor, staring at the imprint.

He completed his mission. He finished his objective.

But he lost his son. 

“I miss you, kid,” he whispered and decided to just buy another tin of cream.


End file.
